‘No,’ spat Jasper. He could not contain his rage enough to be gentle with a woman, and even whores had a limit to their tolerance. He had to force himself to relax his hands from tight fists as he turned to the group of clansmen at his back. They awaited his orders, fearing his anger.
‘Laird, why not let me lead the men on the hunt, and you go home to your wife’s warm bed,’ said Randel.
Jasper shook his head. ‘Tis not that warm these days.’
‘Aye, well, women get like that when they are about to pup.’
Jasper cut him off with a snarl. ‘Isobel’s bed was cold long before I put a bairn in her belly.’
‘Tis no business of mine, Laird,’ said Randel, lowering his eyes.
‘No, but ‘tis common knowledge at Kransmuir and, no doubt, the subject of much gossip. But enough of women. Take some men and see if there are any folk in hiding, injured or too fearful to come out. Send riders out to find out who did this.’
Randel whirled his horse and shouted orders to the men. Jasper churned with bitterness. Randel’s comment had cut him, for he had no warm bed to return to, soft arms to embrace him or mouth that sought his kiss. He had taken Lady Isobel Marlowe into his family and his bed when his pride was in the dirt. Though she was a comely widow, high-born, and possessed vast tracts of fertile land which now belonged to him, it had been asingular piece of folly. Now, he’d as soon put his member into a gorse bush as into Isobel’s rigid body.
Thunder echoed over the hills, and his horse whinnied. There was a fell taste to the air as if Devil’s arse was pressing down on the West March. Rain began to fall, pricking at his face, hitting the burning thatch with a sizzle. Within minutes, it was a deluge, but Jasper was not deterred.
He shouted at his men, ‘Let us ride and find these whoresons who took what is ours.’
Before he could ride out, a Glendenning clansman came thundering into the village. He pulled up his horse with some effort. ‘Laird, you are needed at Kransmuir.’
‘An attack?’
‘No. ‘Tis your wife. She is taken ill, and Lady Glendenning says you must come at once.’
‘How bad is it?’
The man shook his head. ‘I do not rightly know, but the bairn comes early, and it is going a bad way. There is not much time, your mother said.’
His child. His future. Everything he had strived for was in jeopardy. He had sacrificed any hope of love and happiness on the altar of clan loyalty. Was that sacrifice to be for nothing? Guilt ripped through his gut at his bitter thoughts of Isobel. Would God punish him by taking her?
With a curse, Jasper kicked his horse hard in the ribs and headed back to Kransmuir as if the Devil was snapping at his heels.
Chapter Three
The storm was one for the ages, battering Kransmuir’s walls with driving rain, which overflowed the gutters. It raised a wind that rattled the doors and swept down the chimneys, guttering the fires. Yet Jasper stood out in its fury on the ramparts, cold to his bones and seething. The sky flashed bright with forked lightning. Let it strike and burn him to ashes because good fortune had long since abandoned him as punishment for his many sins.
He had a child at last, but he could not rejoice, for his wife lay dead. Isobel was barely cold, yet, at his mother’s command, they were already washing her body and dressing it for burial, taking away the sheets soaked through as she had bled out. He had failed to get home to witness her passing or comfort her. And even now, he wished he had not seen Isobel on her deathbed, for her pale face was a rebuke.
She had looked peaceful in a way she had never been in life. There was no sneer of contempt on her lips, no glare of impatience at his rough border ways. Perhaps she was serene because she had escaped him at last. He had thought ill of his wife that very night and cursed her for her coldness. Now, she would never be warm again. God had certainly punished him for his thoughts. He choked on his guilt as if the almighty had shoved a hand down his throat and ripped out his heart.
‘Jasper, you must come inside before you catch your death of cold.’ His mother stood before him, her red hair stuck to her face with the rain. ‘Tis weak to weep over this.’
‘My wife is dead. Have you no heart?’
‘No more heart than you. You are not this man, Jasper Glendenning. Standing here, howling at the moon, will not change what has happened. Would you rather invite the pity of your clansmen or their respect? You must show them your strength in the face of this loss, not be this fool of a man.’
‘Leave me be, Mother. I am in no mood for your pitiless counsel.’
She laid a hand on his arm. ‘I am not going down to the hall unless you come too, so if you persist in this stubbornness, you may well lose a mother this night as well as a wife.’
Jasper’s fingers dug into the stone of the ramparts as if they could sink into it. His mother had always been a cold woman, but he could still be surprised at the depth of her ruthlessness. She would not give in to him, so he sighed and followed her inside the castle.
Down in the hall, he leant into the hearth, but the flames did little to warm him, and his mother’s words were shards of ice aimed at his heart, no matter that they were true.
‘It is a setback. That is all. And you will recover from it.’
‘I mistreated Isobel. I did not do right by her, and now she is gone.’
